You were ten when you got that bike.
Hounded your parents for weeks before your dad finally broke down and took you to Sears.
It was on sale – a Schwinn – Stingray – training wheels and everything.
Freedom – go anywhere – do anything – adventures.
Took you everywhere – took you to school – right up to last year and then it was time.
But you got older – you got taller. The bike was for a kid. You weren’t a kid anymore. Friends made jokes. Date night would be a problem.
You got a job, you made serious money after school – on weekends. Bagging groceries at Daylight. Walking old ladies to their cars. Getting tips and thank yous and a bank account.
There was a VW with your name on it. Needed a paint job – you had ideas. You had cash.
Bike sat in the backyard – flat tires and a jacket of rust. Time was taking its toll.
You never really thought about it much. Not the sentimental type, even though you called the bike Tillie when you were twelve. Name popped into your head and it stuck.
Tillie was now dumpster food. Seemed kind of cruel. Some gratitude for all those days – you went places you’d never been to because of Tillie. You perfected the art of the Wheelie.
But now it was a shell of its former self – cracked seat – rotten tires. Spokes missing – half the insect population of your neighborhood was living on or near it.
Couldn’t just toss it in the trash and walk away – needed something at least dignified.
A friend told you about a Bike junkyard – a place on Washington Boulevard where Tillie would join all the other bikes nobody wanted and get used for spare parts and maybe a few bucks.
Sounded dignified – going to a worthy cause – Tillie would be part of some other kids Stingray.
You spent the better part of Saturday washing, scrubbing, fixing and pumping air.
Strapped it to the back of the VW and took it to Lopez Bike Paradise.
Handed Tillie over and Lopez nodded – you unconsciously gave him a look and Lopez understood. He knew – he saw it hundreds of times before. You were saying goodbye and you didn’t know it. Lopez handed you a ten and shook your hand. You sighed.
You waited until Lopez wheeled Tillie inside his place before you left.
You swore up and down it was a smoggy day as you wiped your eyes on your sleeve. Felt lousy, no matter.
Turned on your radio and Charlie Tuna kept you company for the ride back.
God, you hated growing up.
And here’s an hours worth of Charlie Tuna from KHJ – February 27, 1970.
